


How Do You Like Them Apples, Angel?

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apples, Domestic Castiel, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 01:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Autumn-ish, abominations, angelic wrath, and I have no idea where this came from or where I’m going with the summary. Domestic Castiel is not very domestic. Humor and fluff. Warning for mentions of pie and non-pie related suggestive situations.





	How Do You Like Them Apples, Angel?

The broad shoulders beneath the beige trench stretch in statuesque stillness where the angel stands before a gleaming grocery display of apples in every shade of red, yellow, green, and variant in between imaginable so vibrant you can taste the sweetness of autumn hanging in the perfumed taint of the air around you. Hey, it beats pumpkin spice anything. Looking down at the obviously empty basket gripped in his left hand, you exhale a sugared sigh and, persuading your overflowing cart into a forward motion with a push despite a loudly protesting squeaky wheel, trudge toward him.

He had one item on his portion of the shopping list, _one_ – a dozen apples to make pie. Over the course of your relationship, it’s become clear that although he has plenty of positives to offer on the front of domestic bliss, shopping for sundries remains beyond his capacity to master; too many brands of the same item exist, too many options for quantity or size present themselves, and if it comes in more than one flavor or color, forget about it. Apples seemed simple. In retrospect, it being harvest season and all, you realize your mistake.

Glancing sideways, you study the serious squint of lashed lids concealing his blues. His focus fixes somewhere distant, beyond the assortment of fruit, fluorescent lights, and brick walls of the market. You reach out, pluck at the waxy slightly sticky crimson skin of a nearby apple, and toss it haphazardly into his basket to get his attention.

Before any of its kin can follow suit, his gaze snaps to you feigning innocence where you lean against the cart.

“I was waiting for you at checkout.” You frown and nudge your sneakered toes at his boot in gentle admonition.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and grabs for an apple of the same variety you chose; he pauses to stare between it and the lone apple rolling around in the bottom of the basket. He knows what you’re thinking, yet he feels compelled to offer an explanation. “It’s just” -his eyes rise to search yours, serious- “have you ever stopped to consider that my Father created the apple and mankind altered its perfection into these” -he gestures at the display- “these _abominations_.”

You shrug and shake your head to indicate that, _no_ , the thought had never occurred to you the crisp white flesh and flashy peel of this fruit exists as an affront to God himself.

He continues the tirade, a trace of anger grating his gravel tone, “There’s no trace now of an original apple to be found _anywhere_. It’s no wonder God abandoned humanity, reckless as you are with his gifts.” Sporting a grouchy scowl that smolders on his handsome features, he regards you with expectant glinting blues for a reaction in justification for the actions of your entire species since the beginning of apple-dom.

Your eyebrows spike and threaten to vault ceiling-ward in surprise, both at his over-the-top apple-ly accusation of sin and at the nascent desire kindling in your belly in wanting to be fruitfully punished for the imprudence by the sexy seraph.

If he were human, you’d suggest perhaps he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. As you woke up in the same bed, and partook of the same pleasantly rousing routine before pouring yourselves out of said bed – on the same side no less – into discarded clothes to begin the day in a great mood, it can’t be that; he’s picking a fight about something though, redirecting the ever-present occasionally erupting super-hot undercurrent of angelic wrath built into his coding, and you suspect being defensive about ineptitude at picking apples is not at the core of the issue.

You have a suspicion what _is_ though. “You can’t really be this worked up about apples. They’re … _apples_. And God abandoned the angels, too, right? Before _us_.” you point out.

The scowl twisting his mouth quavers and drips downward. He nods in affirmation.

“Cas, are you still pissed about that guy stealing the parking space?” you ask, alluding to the dick who snatched the prime space in the lot Cas was patiently waiting for while a little old lady backed out, blinker blinking and all.

A faint flush tints his shadowed cheeks. He turns away from you to hide his frustration and sets to work mindlessly filling his basket with enough apples for three or four pies. Dean will be thrilled.

“Cas?” You give the sleeve of his coat an insistent tug.

“Yes,” he admits with a swallowed growl, more to the apple in his grasp than to you, repeating your phrasing, “I’m still _pissed_.”

“He’s an idiot,” you reassure, squeezing his arm, “karma will catch up to him.”

The angel’s frown deepens at the suggestion. “Last I heard, Karma had quite the backlog. Perhaps I could … enact some small justice on her behalf?”

“ _Cas_ ,” you warn, “we’re here for groceries, not divine traffic enforcement.”

His chest heaves in a heavy sigh of forbearance.

“Come ‘ere.” You haul him nearer by the tie and rise on your tip-toes to land a consoling kiss on his lips. Parting for breath, dragging your nose along his cheek, before withdrawing, you pause to whisper in his ear, “And angel, we only need a dozen of those abominations, so put the rest back and meet me at checkout.”


End file.
